


The Phantom of the Oreo

by PersieDaae



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Tension, Christian Character, Christine needs a breather, Crack Treated Seriously, Don't ask me how but it happened, Erik Has Feelings, F/M, If you think someone beta read this absolute cracktastrophe of a fic you've got another thing coming, Much unnecessary talk about flavors, Rating May Change, Religious Conflict, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:08:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29014095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersieDaae/pseuds/PersieDaae
Summary: A (haunted) Ice Cream Shop AU.."Oh, Meg, I hate that I'm already imposing so much; but there's no studio at your house, and as you said there is no professional sound-proofing there... No one is going to like hearing me singing Mon coeur s'ouvre à ta voix until 1 AM." She snorts, shaking her head."Maybe not us." Meg says, wiggling her brows, "But perhaps the Ghost does.".Inspired by a silly video of Garrett Watts on YouTube. ALW based, with sprinkles of Leroux.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Christine Daaé/Meg Giry, Erik & Nadir Khan, Madame Giry & Nadir Khan
Comments: 10
Kudos: 18





	1. Pavarotti is, actually, an ice cream flavor (banana ice cream with caramel and chocolate chips).

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what I'm doing, but I'm doing it and ain't nobody stopping me.

* * *

"You're too early." Giggles Meg, still wearing her apron and bow tie.

The uniform doesn't stray from the turn-of-the-century motif, as 'Zaharakos' — the name of the shop she'd be staying overnight at — dates back to the year of 1900, when three brothers from Greece opened it as a candy store. It is now owned by Meg's father in law, a man with pronounced Persian heritage and lovely green eyes: Nadir Mazandarani, a very ( _very_ ) rich architect with years and years of experience and a very good eye for business. It's very easy to tell; the place is still buzzing with life as Christine arrives. She couldn't feel too bothered to be early, though; one has to revel in any AC you can get in a hot August afternoon such as this one. July still had its clammy, _hot_ fingers over Indiana, after all; and for a girl who was used to the winters of Sweden, 33°C would surely feel like hell...

 _Does_ feel like hell.

  
The brunette huffs slightly, but clearly not at her friend; she is quite sweaty and disheveled, and Meg does not miss the possible reason for her friend to be too early for her arrangement, by the way her blonde eyebrows are raised.

  
"Sorry." Mutters the other anyway, sheepishly lifting her blue eyes at her friend. "My AC is broken and I didn't want to wait for it to get too dark before coming by; it's not like there _are_ many free places to study back at school either." Christine wavers a hand dismisively, before it goes to her curls, attempting to control the frizz. "The heatwave broke many other ACs there too. One way or another, this would be the best place for me to study now."  


Megs humms in response, cleaning an old-styled icecream glass. 

  
"You could still crash at my home." She says, eyes still on her task; she says it just because she feels like she should, because when the Daaè girl put her mind into something... There was not talking her out of it.

  
"Oh, Meg, I hate that I'm already imposing so much; but there's no studio at your house, and as you said there is no professional sound-proofing there... No one is going to like hearing me singing _Mon coeur s'ouvre à ta voix_ until 1 AM." She snorts, shaking her head.

  
"Maybe not us." Meg says, wiggling her brows, "But perhaps the _Ghost_ does."

  
Christine rolls her eyes, taking her notes from the backpack she's brought.

  
"You truly are obsessed with it, Meg." The mezzo-soprano shakes her head, flashing the blonde a miffed smile. Her shorter counterpart makes a face.

"I'm not obsessed!" She grumbles, putting some clean glasses away. "It's you who is too much of a skeptic. I know there's a Ghost in here, I've heard it before— Hell, _Nadir_ said he saw it himself!" Meg hisses, coming closer to share the gossip; the patrons mustn't know of it, she thinks, even if the other employees share similar tales. "He said he had glowing eyes, like a cat; and he was tall and dark and wore a cape."

  
Christine turns a page from her notebook.

  
"Sounds more like a cryptid than a ghost, to me." She says softly, smiling when she hears Meg bristle.  
It's always fun to tease her; despite being close in ages, her friend still holds a lot of a childlike wonder in her eyes. 

They met back in middle-school, and did not separate ever since. Back when her father was alive, they've scored scholarships together in a School of Fine Arts. Christine has never been as talented as Meg in ballet, of course, so she suspects to this day that her admission had more to do with her father’s job as a professor (and, therefore, his connections) than to her own talent. It's no wonder she decided to study Music, rather than pursue a carrier in ballet like her blonde friend did. Christine now studies at the Indiana Fine Arts Academy, while Meg is a ballerina in the making at the local Ballet Conservatoire.  
It is clear enough to the swedish girl who is being more successful in the situation.

  
Though Meg works almost full-time at the Zaharakos when she's in Summer break, she still comes by to work at weekends like this one, but only because she feels like it. Christine, on the other hand, has to work because she _needs_ it.

  
Her week is packed to the brim, as she take singing classes on the morning and gives ballet classes to 4-year-olds by the afternoon. Twice a week she also gives classes to teens, though those usually happen at night... And so, there is usually little time to practice. And when she has time, she never can stray further than 10 PM, as her elderly neighbors would mind it _very_ much.

  
This isn't the first time Christine stays overnight, really; the shop doesn't open at Sundays, so she can stay up all night if she deems fit. Ever since her Summer break ended, she has asked Meg to let her stay over after she had offered the place jokingly. When Christine grasped her hands and begged her to let her actually do it, the professional ballerina had been surprised.

  
But Meg, _dear_ Meg went and talked with Nadir about it, and he didn't seem to pay much mind. In fact, he seemed quite delighted, for whatever reason.  
 _"Perhaps you will frighten away our Ghost."_ He'd said then, much to Meg's delight (and Madame’s chagrin). 

  
Christine, on the other hand, was — and is — still unbothered by said 'ghost'.

  
It's not like she believes it, anyway; she's been raised on a Methodist household, and they did not believe in spirits wandering around after death. And even if it was the case, why an ice cream shop? Surely, there must be better places to haunt.

  
Well... Perhaps it _might_ grace her with its presence tonight.

Christine is almost mortified that she wishes it, but only barely; after her father’s death, she dearly wishes that there's a way to talking with the dead, no matter how sinful such way of thinking is. _Whether_ she likes to admit it or not, Christine has had a very pronounced falling out with her faith since then.  
She still believes in God, of course; her silver cross necklace is a reminder of it. But... Maybe what has happened is that she has fallen out of love with the teachings of _men_.

  
Back in Sweden, she remembers living in a rather laid-back home. As her father was a musician, by profession, there was much he had to overlook in order to arrange himself some work. He'd play at parties, dinners and many other places that were not, say, _strictly_ Christian. The best of those places, Christine still thinks, were the theaters he played at. All the velvet and big orchestras and fancy dresses... It was like living in the dreamlands that Gustav Daaè would often tell her at bedtime, after their prayers.   
And, with the constant traveling, there were times when her father and her couldn’t attend service, skip praying hours, and even work at Sundays! So, when he scored himself a stable job in the US at her tender age of fourteen, Christine certainly had a shock.

  
Well, many sorts of shock.

  
A new language to learn, a grade to attend that was 2 years behind her age ( _thus_ the age difference between her and Meg), a new church to be a constant part of, and many, _many_ rules that came along.

  
For one, all Sundays belonged to the Lord; one of the actual benefits, honestly, because then she'd have more free time to spend with her father. He wouldn't have to play at service, and they would only have to attend at 6PM sharp, leaving them with the whole day to play chess or go out on picnics or even to catch a movie! Nonetheless, other than that, everything looked like a setback.

  
No parties was another, which included all the balls that occurred back in school; fortunately enough, she never missed one birthday or sleepover at Meg's house, though other people at her church seemed a little annoyed about it.

  
Alcohol and other drugs were also heavily frowned upon, and dating... Christine doesn’t even want to go there. She either had to entertain the local boys, or not entertain anyone at all...

  
Being single has never been so easy of a decision.

  
"So you’ve really not seen anything?" Meg says to her, after coming back from serving a table. Christine blinks, dazed from her own inner musings.

  
"About the ghost, you say?" She frowns, noting now that her pencil had suffered the might of her teeth. She grimaces; it's an old habit, tough to get rid of, but a nasty habit nonetheless.

  
"I thought you were calling him cryptid now." Chirps the blonde, coming to stand across the barstool, again busy with cleaning some empty glasses.

  
"Him?" Christine raises her brow, choosing to entertain Meg.

 _For now_.

"Oh, yes, _him_." Grins the younger, who takes a conspiratorial tone to her voice. "Little James said that she heard the Ghost singing, once; she'd forgotten her bag behind, you see, and came back to take it. She said she heard a voice, singing or lamenting; she's not sure. But—" Meg clinks the glass, looking at the brunette, her dark green eyes glitting. "She also said it sounded like a male, and it gave her goosebumps."

  
Christine snorts.

  
"Was it that bad?"

  
Meg sighs.

  
" _No_. She said she never heard something so beautiful."

  
The taller girl rolls her eyes again, letting her eyes procure the original tale-teller; Little James was a ginger girl, a little more on the curvaceous side, but with a face that betrayed very little maturity. She is even younger than Meg, and perhaps more naïve, too. 

  
"I bet she has never heard of Pavarotti before." Christine giggles, earning herself a mock glare from Meg.

  
"That’s _so_ mean, Chris. I mean... We both know she would think it to be an icecream flavor, but—"  
They both fall into a fit of snickering before the ballerina can even finish her sentence.  
It doesn't take much longer for Meg to start closing the shop, after that; the shop tends to close earlier at Saturdays, because at the area it is located there isn't much movement after dark. Nadir, thinking of the safety of the many girls who work there, prefers to lose the possible extra money than to put anyone at risk.

  
Madame Giry couldn't have asked for a better husband if she tried to.

  
"Is he gonna pick you up today?" Christine asks, helping the other employees with the remaining dishes. Granted, she does not work there nor does she is payed to help, but nobody seems to complain about the extra help. Unless, of course, you would count that she has free acess to the soda machines and the icecream.

  
A pity that she can't eat or drink neither of those while she stays there. She does _not_ need any more setbacks.

  
"Yep, he will come by soon. You could come to dine with us, you know?" She says, putting her apron back into the lockers.   


Christine sighs.

"Maybe after the recitals." She says, smiling sadly. 

"I haven't much time to practice other than at Saturdays, and I have nowhere else to practice other than here, so..." She shrugs, lowering her gaze guiltily. "It's been tough. I have to use all the extra time I can."

  
Her friend, her best friend smiles in complete understanding.

  
"You know, Maman said you could use one of her studios if you'd like." 

  
Christine winces a little bit, despite her thankful smile.

  
"The acoustics aren't the best there." She says, pausing a little before continuing. "And... I wouldn't have an organ to play around."

  
Meg laughs-screams at her remark; for whatever reason, the fact that the shop owns a still functional vintage-organ is completely hilarious to her.

  
Perhaps it has to do with 'the ghost'. She’s 100% sure that Nadir kept it there to keep the ghost around; she’d even told Christine a few accounts of people seeing it playing by itself at night, spooking people to no end with its omnious sound and the phantom hands playing at the keys.

  
But, so far, the only unnerving thing Christine _herself_ had encountered so far is the fact that her pencils would always disappear from the tables, if she left them unattended. 

And only the ones with teeth marks, too.

  
But, of course, Meg knew none of it; if the Daaè woman ever decide to tell her, it would be certain that Giry would want to stay behind and do a complete ghost hunt around the grounds, which would greatly distract Christine from her practice.

  
"I wish I'd see you play it." She sighs, entering the showers that the shop supplied to its employees; they weren't luxurious by any means, but, _granted_ , the users great privacy, as the boxes were all separated by firm walls and opaque doors.

  
"Nah. You know I'm not that good at the piano." Christine sits close by, thankful that most girls chose to change behind the doors... It was rather unpleasant to bump into naked people when you were trying to have a conversation with your friend... Who is _also_ naked, but at least behind a door.

Christine hates the Christian holiday _retreats_ with all her might.

  
"You said you started studying the harp?" She asks, her sweet and lighter voice echoing on the walls. The girls who already know Christine say goodbye to her as they pass by, and the bathroom gets less and less crowded by the minute; a relief, really, because only then she feels comfortable enough to take a quick shower herself.

  
"I did, but I haven't had much time to practice." She says, now on a box close to Meg's; she squeals in surprise. The older one snickers.

  
"It is I, the ghOoOoSt—" Christine says in a silly voice, eliciting a high pitche laugh _and_ a soap-attack from Meg. " _OUCH!_ "

  
It lands right at the back of her head; for a girl as petit as the ballerina, Meg has some serious strength.

  
" _Dumbass_. If you tease him too much, he'll scare you later."

  
Christine shoves the soap back above the wall, and Meg only chuckles.

  
"Don't blame me if you finally get haunted tonight."

  
Christine rolls her eyes as she lets the icy water wash away the grime from her skin and hair.

  
They end up being the last ones at the shop — save Nadir, who probably came by as they were busy throwing soap at each other.

  
The middle-aged man grins at the girls.

  
"You ladies always take too long to get ready." He says, not really complaining. Meg hurries to give him a side hug, and he kisses her forehead.

  
Christine melts a little. It wasn't until Meg was fifteen that she finally got a fatherly figure in her life, as her the only thing she's ever had of her own dad was a name and her blonde hair.

  
Nadir, ever since becoming part of her life, has been the best dad she could have asked for.

  
"Sorry, guy. _Your_ _daughter_ had been trying to spook me with ghosts stories." Christine says in a blithe manner, poiting to the perpetrator in question with her chin.

  
Nadir laughs, taking her purse; always the gentleman, whoever it was. Though with Meg, Christine suspects, it has more to do with spoiling than with actual chivalry.

  
"To her, every day is Halloween." He sighs as she finishes closing. "But I must say, I'm curious; didn't of the tales of her repertoire which got you scared?" There's the strange glint on his eye again; always there when they talk of 'the Ghost'. 

Christine never knows what to make of that.

  
"Ah, yes. She got me shaking in my boots with that strange account of the pot of Oreo which mysteriously disappeared overnight." She fakes a shiver. "Dreadful, _dreadful_."

  
They share laugh as the blonde glares at them, arms crossed and a impatient expression on her face.  


"We'll be late for dinner." She huffs, obviously embarrassed; she could stand anyone making fun of her, but everytime Nadir did it, she'd become a grumpy 5-year-old. Madame Giry would be another one, perhaps, but you would never know whether the woman was being serious or completely sarcastic.  
Her expression never betrayed a thing.

  
"Have fun, you all." Christine hugs Meg, knowing it would melt away any anger she might have; she dealed enough with kids on a daily basis to know that it always works.

  
She almost laughs when she feels her shoulders relaxing.  


"Give Madame a hug for me?"  


They promise to do so and promptly leave; even if Meg had been trying to divert attention with her comment about time, neither were crazy enough to _actually_ leave Madame waiting.

  
So they go, and Christine stays.

  
"Just you and me now." She says to the empty space, ignorant to the pair of yellow eyes watching her on the dark.


	2. 'Delilah' tastes like limoncello and vanilla.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delilah sings to Samson.
> 
> He responds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To any who might want the translation of the song present in this chapter:  
> https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mon_c%C5%93ur_s%27ouvre_%C3%A0_ta_voix
> 
> Señora Caballe's version of the song:  
> https://youtu.be/vSm2u-94D-Y

* * *

Yet another pencil suffers dreadful lacerations from the furious molars of Christine Daaè. 

It's already past 9PM, on the big grandpa clock, and the singer knows better than to doubt its punctuality. And... It's not like she has an option. 

She forgot her goddamn _charger_.

She groans when she reminds herself once more of her own stupidity; the accompaniment had been previously recorded in there and, as a woman with a humble salary, she didn’t have a laptop or tablet (or anything else!) other than her cellphone to play along as she sang. 

But, in the end, maybe it was for the best: Christine is completely certain that she should change the pitch, bring it one octave down, and the extra time without the background music helped her study the new melody better.

She knew, from the beginning that her head notes had been sounding sorta strained. It would have been easier, in fact, if she did not stray from the original song; but, curious and perfectionist as she was, Christine couldn’t bear to sing something that would feel less than precise. _Hell yeah,_ she could reach the higher notes: but they never felt as pretty or complete than when she sang with her chest voice.

  
She'd already tested that.

When she had a little extra time at home and Mama Valerius had not been asleep yet, she tried singing lower and it all clicked: that had been why she have been sounding so strange! How on _Earth_ would she ever sound like Maria Callas (hah! She _wishes_ ) if she was a more of an Elina Garanca than anything else? Well.... Maybe not that much of a Garanca; she is too _way_ out of her league in regards to tequinique and stage presence. Where Elina was assertive, Christine is pliable; where Garanca demands that the orchestra _gets on her level_ , Daaè surrenders to the maestro’s guidance.

  
And yes, Christine has a dark tone to her voice, but it still sounds light and smooth, rather than sensuous and commanding. Perhaps she reminded people more of _Montserrat_ on her lower register. 

But she knows there are many years on the road yet to ever be able to even compare herself to those great geniuses.

  
Well— Whatever she ultimately chose to do with her solo, the cellphone would had helped to provide a piano cover, as surely at least one video with the right pitch would be available on YouTube. And she could use it now; but if she does, there will be no charge left in the morning, when she'll have to take an Uber home.

She jabs the bitten pencil on her forehead.

Why did she have to be so stubborn and choose to sing the temptress Delilah, instead of sweet, lovely Tatyana? What an insane decision. The excuse of wanting to sing a Biblical-themed aria sounds sorta weak, even to herself; if she has to connect easier with a character, that should be the sweet heroine, not the lost villainess... 

  
_Right_? 

  
But when she really thought about the Autumn recital, and the news that big names would be among the attendees, Tatyana looked grey and... _Dull_.

But Delilah?

Oh, when she _heard_ the score, when she _read_ the lyrics... Her heart fluttered away, like a dove's wing. So she really fought for the role, reminding the maestro that she had never _once_ asked to choose her arias before; he begrudgingly accepted it, even not understanding the reason behind. And, to be honest, neither does Christine.

She just _feels_ it.

And Christine Daaè never does anything without purpose and care; she decided to follow her heart and and she will _not_ betray it. And, come to think of it, she's already going to engage with the maestro to convice him to change the piano arrangement; why the hell would she want to give herself _even_ more trouble by suddenly giving up at the slightest hint of trouble, just to end up with a easier, yet _boring_ piece? 

_No_ , she thinks, _going back now_.

She has two months to prepare which, considering her level of skill, should be quite enough. But _this_ is not the only thing she has to prepare for, as she still has her obligations with the choir, and has another aria to sing.

' _Ombra mai fu_ ' is far from her favorite piece of music, yet... To her luck, it's one of the Church's favorite and it's perfectly easy for her to sing both in pitch and in performance— it would not be her first time performing it, and if the church had any say in it, it wouldn't be the _last_. Although, in her heart she knows that... She really would rather go with 'Ave Maria' again.

An overused aria?

100%.

_It still feels much more compelling than the previous option._

Her wandering eyes fall upon her new score as she mulls over past water. Isn't this just a waste of time? Honestly, she knows better than to let herself be consumed by anxiety and self-doubt. This is unbecoming of her; Christine needs to stop eating her pencil and go and find a way to actually practice.

"You got this." She grumbles to herself, drawing hearts on the paper.

So, it's either a capella or... Maybe go and take an Uber home _now_ , retrieve her charger and then come back to the shop. But _then_ it would be not only more expensive, and _poor_ Mama Valerius would ask her questions, and then the _neighbors_ would ask _even more_ questions— and there is no such a thing as privacy in a elderly neighborhood, _especially_ if it is a Protestant one — and Christine really _refuses_ to deal with church gossip anymore than necessary (if you consider that she thinks it is absolutely unnecessary, and she never cared much for gossip— Notably the ones regarding herself).

Mama thought that she was always sleeping over at Meg's, not singing until the night was high in a _haunted icecream shop_.

"You're over complicating things." She chides herself, finally putting the now feeble excuse of a pencil down.

She'd wrote and erased and _wrote again_ enough annotations to know the written melody back and forth; it's not like she would sing the whole aria, anyway, as it culminates on a duet. And even if, she knows that part too. Fortunately for her, though, the school lacked a good enough tenor to sing along ( _oof_ ). Not to mention that Christine would refuse to sing it with anyone, no matter _what_ — the 22-year-old has trouble enough denying suitors as it is; the last thing she needs is _another_ bachelor getting the wrong idea with a romantic duet such as this one.

Another sigh leaves her mouth, but this one more out of resignation than of actual despair. She has to, plain and simple, stop _stalling_ and just sing the aria without music. 

"Here goes nothing." She says to herself, getting up to warm up and stretch. 

With a last look to her papers, she begins.

_Mon cœur s'ouvre à ta voix_  
_Comme s'ouvrent les fleurs_  
_Aux baisers de l'aurore_  
_Mais, ô mon bienaimé_  
_Pour mieux sécher mes pleurs_  
_Que ta voix parle encore_

Christine then hesitates, trying to imagine the instrumentals; it ends up that she loses her cue, and has to begin again. Fortunately enough, she could feel that even in her failed try her voice sounded waaaay more natural and comfortable, even if she senses something notably _wrong_ with it. 

She shakes her head, then, beginning to pace; her soft socks make no noise as she pads mindlessly at the wooden floor, and her long skirt trails behind, her eyes wandering through the old (and original) cabinets, mirrors, wooden portals. She stops at the organ, taking a breath in—

That was original, too.

Meg said it still works; yet, Christine is still to see anyone playing it. Usually the clients were kept from toying around with it, with a double no to the children. But Christine's not only ( _not_ a child and) a close friend of theirs, but a trained musician. Alas, not a _professional_ pianist, but she could play a little bit. Just enough.

Her dainty fingers then try a note; it rings back, clear and strong, like it was brand new organ still— not a _1900s_ relic. She grimaces a bit; it’s not the same delicate accompaniment as a piano would provide, but she has to make due. Nonetheless, rather to start singing again, she tries to _listen_ to the music. Maybe, she thinks, if she plays it herself, she would finally find the answers she needs.

A good thing came from fretting over the score, after all: she could remember not only her own notes, but the instrumentals as well. 

It starts a little anxious; yet, _delicate_. It's probably the intention, like Delilah is trying to call Samson's attention to herself, with her pretty jewels and silky dress. But then— _Then_ the melody slows, and everything garish melts into pure sweetness, and now that Christine herself is playing the notes at their most raw form, she begins to actually _understand_. Well, yes; her form is certainly not perfect, and she is dragging the melody for way too long, clearly out of tempo; but she begins to _get it_. And this makes her understand why she fought for the aria the way she did: unlike with Tatyana, she actually empathized with Delilah. In _this_ moment, she is human; defenseless; vulnerable. It feels like shedding away a heavy armor, to leap away in _freedom_.

It feels like something she's never felt before, but desperately wants to.

Christine does not believe that the charcater could ever be doing this careful, romantic and heartfelt seduction out of pure malice; if so, never in this Earth walked a woman more terrible than Delilah. But Christine— Oh, _she_ would never sing this song like _that_ ; to her, such deceitful act is impossible to fanthom, and even more so to interpret. Her father, her _good_ , mellow father, had raised her as a good woman; regardless of religion, _regardless_ of God.

Christine is, even at her darkest corner, someone who craves the light.

But this _song_... It feels so...

 _Liberating_.

And it feels like the sweetest, honey-tongued type of freedom. There is no expectations here; no rules, no dogma, no sarcasm or cold smiles. No need to cower and protect herself in demure clothing or with distant eyes.

In this song, Christine can simply be a woman; a _vulnerable_ woman, in fervent, dedicated love. But not to the great, _intangible_ God— no. It is to a _man_.

Someone of blood and flesh, someone who could, in fact, hear her laughter, hold her hands and... Kiss her lips.

_Oh_ , she understands then, as her fingers keep going and going, what is like to crave another; to crave it in the darkest and lightest ways, to want him to lead you into sweet torture, to hold you in his safe arms.

The more she plays, the more she finds herself thinking of this inexistant Samson; this wondrous, dangerous man with a brave heart; someone who would do anything for her.

_Anything_. 

What sweet things were being hidden from her, up until now? What dark desires had she been completely shunned from, what delicious wonder lies on the brink of the abyss?

_If she only dared to jump._

Oh, _God_ ; the more she plays, the less she can think of anything else, other than this Pandora box she has just opened. But— there is no war and horror and fear; there are, of course, many things her church would certainly frown upon, but... They were all things she could very easily share with a husband, under the safe dome of matrimony.

_No one would know. No one would question._

And now, in her intoxicated head, there is only passion and fire, and Christine is _filled_ with longing. She opens her mouth without thinking, then, and starts again.

_Mon cœur s'ouvre à ta voix_  
_Comme s'ouvrent les fleurs_  
_Aux baisers de l'aurore_  
_Mais, ô mon bienaimé_  
_Pour mieux sécher mes pleurs_  
_Que ta voix parle encore_

  
Christine’s heart pounds faster, and she stops playing altogether; her voice continues. 

  
The music takes her away.

  
_Dis-moi qu'à Dalila_  
_Tu reviens pour jamais_  
_Redis à ma tendresse_  
_Les serments d'autrefois_  
_Ces serments que j'aimais_

  
Oh, to _be_ Delilah.

  
Oh, to have a _Samson_ , and not those many damned perverts who roamed, mostly unseen, inside the sacred walls of her church; she knew of those men who hid their ugly intentions behind kind smiles and sage words; she _knows_ where their wandering eyes lie, even when speaking the word of the Lord— Or those stupid, spineless fools who would try to spoil her with weak promises, blank laughs, certainly expecting of her many things she would not provide, or _cared not_ to provide.

She _wants_ a Samson to herself, to hold her heart in his hands, and let her do the exact same thing in return. But... There are no Samsons in her church. So _who_ is she begging for? _Who_ is the one who will answer her pleas, and give themselves to her?

_Ah, réponds à ma tendresse!_  
_-Moi, verse-moi l'ivresse!_  
_Réponds à ma tendresse!_  
_Réponds à ma tendresse!_  
_Ah, verse-moi, verse-moi l'ivresse!_

She heaves then, breathless; she swears she hears a voice respond, on the dark.

Christine hastly gets up, looks around. The sound— oh, so _soft_ and gentle and _dark..._ Oh, it becomes louder and louder as she blindly paces, and the closer she comes to the walls by the bar.

When her face is but a breath away from the second mirror, the one in her left, she hears it.

**_Dalila! Dalila! Je t'aime!_**

  
Christine freezes. Is... Is this the _Ghost_? What is this voice? To _whom_ does it belong to? Where— Oh, dreadfully to her, as soon as she takes the shyest hint of this _magical_ voice... It's gone. She whips her head around, trying to sense it again. 

_Nothing_.

The next verse comes out of her in a gasp.

_Ainsi qu'on voit des blés_  
_les épis onduler_  
_sous la brise légère,_  
_ainsi frémit mon cœur,_  
_prêt à se consoler,_  
_à ta voix qui m'est chère!_  
_La flèche est moins rapide_  
_à porter le trépas,_  
_que ne l'est ton amante_  
_à voler dans tes bras!_

She's _desperate_ as she begs for him, as avid as one would be as they prayed to God.

Slowly, then, Christine hears the voice again; it's smooth and strong and low, dueting withe hers ever so sweetly; and she can _barely_ hear it below her own, but she _can_. And so she repeats her final verses, her voice sounding _strikingly_ inappropriate as she pleas for a lover's touch; and her reward, then, is to hear the voice, clearer this time, singing back:

**_Dalila! Dalila! Je t'aime!_**

Christine's legs buckle, and she has to catch herself to not fall to the floor. The only thing she sees is her own pale face on the mirror; but underneath the terror and shock, she can see her own two pupils blown wide.

And she, for one, suspects that such occurrence is not born out of fear.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning to any who might want to read:
> 
> I am not a Methodist, but I do have first hand experience with Protestant groups. The choice of such Church is merely accidental, as I needed a music institute in the same city of the said icecream shop (which actually exists) in Indiana. But as I don’t live in the US like Christine does, and as I know nothing of the local community, I beg of you to take my account as a grain of salt.
> 
> I was raised a Catholic, and the differences between the communities are many.  
> My experience is that I had a friend who was Protestant, and she would often invite us to come around her church. One of the major differences is that there were way more younger people there than in my church; the other was that I heard way more gossip around her church. It might be because at my Catholic church I was always surrounded by family, and I noticed that people would stay very far away from me, and all the groups were made out of family bonds rather than friendship.  
> I also noticed how differently I was treated in my friend's church, because I was a teen unaccompanied by any parents. People would always try to approach more, and often they would suggest of me "converting". Our other friend, who also was raised a Catholic but had her family way more present was never as harassed as I was.
> 
> What is happening to Christine might be *completely* unrealistic to the Methodist community, and I don't hope to spread any type of false propaganda in this work. 
> 
> But I do hope you know that evil exists in all places, and a lonely young woman is always in high alert. I always felt like a potential prey, rather than a welcomed friend; I intended to pass this feeling in this chapter. Not everyone treat her this way, but there are some, and those make her uncomfortable to no end.
> 
> And in many spaces, religious or not, I had to deal with (usually) older men with their leering eyes directed at me, because I didn't have my father or brother coming along; in the same spaces, when they were with me, I felt like I didn't even exist. 
> 
> That's all I have to say.


	3. Please, don’t eat pencils.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1 Peter 1:15: "He which hath called you is Holy, so be ye holy in all manner of conversation."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please consider that Christine’s church, in this story, is part of the Evangelical Wesleyan Church line; they are a little more conservative.
> 
> Oh! It has occurred to me that I never shared the video that has inspired this madness.  
> Here you go: https://youtu.be/QI5FoxVXtcI
> 
> And a Pinterest link to anyone curious about Zaharakos: https://pin.it/67On2Na

* * *

Christine’s eyes are suddenly invaded by gaudy light.

She groans; sleeping hunched over on one of the tables is never comfortable, but it’s _still_ better than lying down the bench in the break room. And, she must say, for an ice cream shop… It's impressive enough that they had a break room at all. And an employee-only-bathroom with multiple showers, too! 

Nadir might be one of the few ice cream shop-owners to do that; yet, because he owns _most_ of the property on that block, he has a lot of space to do as he pleases. Well. At least his _company_ does....? 

It was called ‘M&C’, as she recalls, or something of the sort. He — _they?_ — is — _are?_ — very big in the city. She’s pretty sure they helped restore a local theater recently… Something big, probably. She can’t quite recall. But she knows that Nadir has done a beautiful job with the shop; it looks very… Vintage, without looking worn out. Truly a master’s work. Yet... Strangely enough, as far as she remembers, she’s never seen _one_ drawing of his. Perhaps he worked more as an engineer? But, surely, engineers do draw as well, don’t they....? Did he keep all his probable drafts and drawings at his office...? 

_Anyway_. 

It's not like she went to the shop to think about architecture. And she never meant to _sleep_ either! Usually she would take naps here and there, nothing too long or deep. For whatever reason though, this time around she basically passed out as if injected with morphine in her veins. 

Her weary eyes check her arms, which are spotless and as smooth as ever. No; it must have been her exhaustion. She shakes her head as her blue irises wander through the empty space and they settle at the organ, still and mighty and _silent_. 

Christine wonders if ghosts can play. 

She sighs, then, cleaning the dry traces of saliva from her mouth and cheek as she sits upright, feeling her back muscles twitch with exertion and her trapezius scream in pain. 

God. What an inglorious morning, compared to the _lovely_ night she's had. 

Oh, after _everything_ that occurred, she didn't get much else done; it was like she had burned through all her combustibles in one go, and was left completely empty afterwards. _No—_ Now that is a lie; she's not _completely empty_ . In fact, she feels quite full: there is so much inside of her that she can’t quite put the finger on what _this_ is: It feels like running through the meadows during spring, bare feet on cold water and hair loose and wild against the warming wind; it’s like standing on a open field with the sun shining and heavy summer rain falling; it’s like the thrill of having your first pumpkin spice after laying down on a bed of orange leaves; it’s like waking up to Christmas and seeing the snow outside, knowing there’s a cup of hot cocoa and plenty gifts waiting for you. 

New beginnings— _That’s_ what it feels like.

Perhaps the music she chose herself had not been an accident; _maybe_ she needed to get in touch with that forgotten part of herself, one that had been hidden in the deepest parts of her mind up until now; it felt like diving into an ancient lake out of sheer curiosity and, by pure accident, come upon a big, strange chest of treasures, which held forbidden jewels: the longing of passion, the ache for love — and her more, say, _earthly_ desires — that had all been left to waste away, as life had stole from her the opportunity to feel such things. She had been so used to striving to survive, and keeping herself from falling apart and guarding her own safety for oh, so long, that... She had almost forgotten about it.

That she's only _human_. That she has dreams of her own.

She's also been so busy in reaching goals and upholding expectations that she's simply forgotten the little joys of living in the moment, and… Of being present. Not thinking about the future or past, but simply existing, _feeling_ . And oh, she has felt _so much_ . Christine combs her fingers through her hair, a faint smile on her lips; even if her body complained so thoroughly of pain, she can’t quite remember the last time she has felt so... _Alive?_

Yes. _That_ is the word.

There are some things that she regrets thinking about, in the previous night; she knows that her disdain for the men available at her church was not completely fair. There are many good men there, but… None that she sees as a marriage prospect, an intellectual challenge, a good partner or, well, someone _attractive_ . Not in the common sense of the word, of course; there were many beautiful in physique, but very much lacking in _charm_. And… Well. 

She knows that marriage is usually seen as, at least from what she learnt, a sacred partnership that should fulfill the goals not of the couple, but that the _Lord_ has. She can’t help but feel very annoyed at the concept; it made marriage seem so cold and distant, regardless of the dynamics between the couple. She’s seen a lot of marriages in her church, and by the Lord, they do _discourage_ her. Must she marry so early, like most did? Must she marry before dating, knowing someone, like the majority of them? And... _Must she marry at all?_ She doesn’t know.

All she knows is that her parents had not been like _that_.

Christine grew up seeing her mom and dad in such a passionate and love-filled marriage that they would often raise eyebrows between the Methodist community; some would say that the couple could behave a little _inappropriately_ (nothing but kisses, as she recalls, and they never did anything that would hurt a child’s innocence; but considering that their church was _majority_ made of conservative people…); or that they didn’t spend enough time at the church, choosing either to perform or spend time with Christine; or even that her mother was a little too modern for their taste. Unlike Gustav, Célestine was born French and raised Catholic; she would often be seen as an outcast, no matter where they went.

Regardless of the external world, she faintly remembers the sweet days of her little family; and even if most of her childhood memories escaped her, she recalls how _strong_ their love was. Her dad had never left her side, when she got sick, and refused to remarry once she passed away; he had always told her that he would like to reunite with her in heaven, so what use did he have to another wife? Many would complain that he had to give Christine a new mother, and that having a ‘better-suited’ wife could certainly help him to stay on his path; but she shared his thoughts, and didn’t see the use of a new mother when she could reunite with her own whenever she went to Heaven.

_If_ she goes to heaven, now. 

How good of a Christian girl is she, anyway? Christine knows this is not the first time she’s wondered about it. 

There were times that she forgot to pray before sleeping, because she was just too tired to do anything else other than hiding herself under the sheets. There were times when she skipped church service altogether; in those quiet, sunny Sundays, she couldn’t help but remember her Papa, and it hurt to stand alone among a crowd. Way too often she found herself horrified by the Bible, and the writings of men who spoke very strongly of blood and death and punishment. 

The God that her dad preached about was kind, and warm. 

This conservative, old church — albeit welcoming and bright, _at first glance_ — spoke too often of duty, modesty, self-sacrifice and aloofness to the world. They do hold some sort of value, of course, but only if taken with temperance; once they are _all_ you do and think of… They rather feel like shackles. Oh, and the end of times! What a terrifying thing. She’d always hated that, except by the prospect of going to Heaven — the idea of seeing her family once again was incredibly encouraging. It had been so easy at some point; she just had to follow the rules, stay a good girl, and smile! And for so long, she did just that. But… The muscles of your face can get tired from smiling too much, especially if it’s not out of honesty; following the rules can become tiresome, if you start to reflect on them and question their necessity; and how is she to stay a good girl, if it makes her miserable? So, inevitably, she grew tired. Inevitably, she changed. 

She sees it very clearly now.

She sees now that it is pure misery, to spend her lifetime only to please those around her, to the point of being unable to wear anything that showed anything above the knees; to the point that she has never drank, not _once_ ; to the point that even visiting her childhood best friend’s home (of the same sex!) would elicit gossip and disapproval; to the point that she felt like her whole life was an act, rather than her own story. She sees, now, that she is nothing but a caged bird, forced to perform melodies that are not of her own choice. All but _one_. 

Last night... Last night she finally _did_ it. She snared a melody to herself! She rose, and her wings were spread and her voice took flight. 

But— What is a canary to do, after tasting such freedom? However safe their little cage is, the elation of musical abandonment feels worth the risk. Yet... Could she broaden her horizons, now? Could she finally listen to the cravings lying underneath her skin, dormant for so many years…? No, not _dormant_ : on a leash. A tight, oppressive one.  


There’s so much she wants to do.

She wants to travel again — she misses doing so, very dearly. The new experiences, the visits to distant times in history, the different foods and colors and airs.  
She wants to sport shorter, tighter clothes; not vulgar, per say, but at least… Compelling? Feminine? Beautiful? And, dare she say, _sensuous_ ?  
She wants to wear high heels.  
She wants to wear red lipstick, and she wants to drink wine; she wants to go clubbing with Meg and dance the night away. 

Dear God, she wants to go on a proper _date_. And if she ends up in another’s bedsheets after that… Well. What happens, happens. What a curious thought! No shame, no regret… Just doing things because you want to do them. 

How good would it be to live without consequences? To simply just… _Live?_

Christine bites her lip, frowning; it would be easy living like that. But what about the life she has now? Can she just… Leave her church, her job, her studies…? What about Mama Valerius? No, it probably wouldn’t be that easy. She would need to plan. And to plan… She would need to decide. To _sacrifice_ … And there’s so much to lose.

But that _voice—_ She can’t help but think of it.

So yearning, so… Lonely. Like _herself_ . Was it even _real_ , to begin with? Was he even real, or was it just a reflection of her own soul, that she’s casted into the world to make herself feel better? Oh, she can’t help but remember it; whatever thoughts she’s having, the guiding light has been _that_ voice, like a lantern in the deep dark. 

And Christine is a moth.

Now that the morning light invades the shop, she is quite certain that the most likely answer would be that she’s dreamed it all; all 'ghostly' activity only seemed to be heard when the sky was black and the world was quiet. Nothing seems quite out of place, other than her hair. She scrunches her nose at the mirrors. Jokes aside — all chairs are still in place, decorations remain untouched, soda fountains still empty and clean as they should be. Christine _still_ looks around a little more, stretching; she's being preposterous, obtuse or even irrational, but... 

_Should she check out the Oreo supply?_

She again bites her lip, but this time to stifle a laugh; her mint-green skirt trails behind as she disappears into the kitchen.

* * *

"How did it go?" Asks Meg, as soon as she stops by to give back the keys; they’ve decided, as she made her way into the mansion, to have lunch together. Mama had called earlier, saying that she would be receiving guests over and so Christine wouldn't have to hurry home; should she get back in time for the service, it would be all well.

Blessed woman. She had never been anything other than kind to Christine.

_And yet._

"Well." She says, not knowing if she meant that it went well, or 'well, I think I might have had an hallucination of a voice which was so deliciously manly that I am now praying that ghosts exist, if only to hear it again. Oh, I am also considering leaving my religion behind and becoming a _worldly woman_ — it would break Mama’s heart, but not trying to do it is also tearing me apart’. 

She only smiles, not betraying any of her thoughts. 

"I... I think that I made an improvement. In the song, I mean."

"Oh?" 

The blonde raises her brows, snatching the tingling keys that Christine weakly offered her on her own hands. They then venture further inside, as Meg links an arm to hers; the swedish girl tells her that she would tell her everything — or almost everything — after a shower.

Christine, fortunately, always kept a backpack filled with clothes on her bff's house, as it would always prove to be helpful whenever spontaneous sleepovers would arise. It was troublesome enough that Christine slept away from home frequently, in a _non-Protestant_ household... So, to avoid the many complications of going home to fetch some pajamas and toothbrush, Christine usually brought a huge bag along anytime she'd visit the Giry-Mazandarani home and left it there, if the need arose.

She is very glad that they all didn't seem to mind her constant presence, _not at all;_ as much as Mama Valerius treated her as a daughter, it would always feel rather aggravating to be forever seen as a child. 

Her ways of living were rather conservative and, though Christine was a rather cold and reserved woman, she would never meet the expectations that the church held in regards to being a good enough Methodist female.

Not even to Mama's eyes.

_But did she really want to be one?_

"Christine, you're not listening." Meg jabs her on the ribs, making the soprano wince; had she been speaking at all? 

Oh dear. Christine didn’t hear a _word_. She musters a sad smile.

"Sorry, Meg— My head is elsewhere. I—"

"I can see that.” Interrupts Meg, narrowing her eyes at her friend. Christine fidgets nervously. “So… Nothing happened? Nothing, say… Otherworldly?” The dancer lifts her brows suggestively, making the other snort. “Oh, what? Why are you laughing?? Tell me! There were no supernatural shenanigans you'd like to share?" The way she grips her arm is so desperate that it almost seems like she’s being led to an interrogation room; the thought makes Christine’s lips twitch up a little bit. She remembers that Nadir had mentioned being a cop for a little while.

So the apple _really_ does not fall far away from the tree.

"The Oreo supply was full." Christine pauses, and grins. "I checked."

Meg gasps.

“YOU CHECKED?” 

Madame Giry then magically appears at the end of the corridor, glaring at Meg for the scream. 

"Madame— Can you lend me a charger?" Christine asks suddenly, trying to divert attention; it works, fortunately. Meg sighs in relief, and drags her friend to her room before her mother changes her mind. 

“You’re really not going to tell me anything?” Meg whines, sitting on her unnecessarily big mattress. Christine sighs, letting her other bag fall onto the bed.

“Goodness’ sake, woman, let me shower first.” She pins up her hair momentarily; it was big and long enough that she could do a makeshift knot, but it wouldn’t hold for very long. “It’s the least you can do after I saved you from an _earful_ back there.”

Meg pouts, but complies.

Christine then eyes her other bag; the one she’s brought along, with her studying material, to the ice cream shop. It was only big enough to carry necessary items — her phone; her wallet; a water bottle; some books about music theory (those had definitely seen better days); a tiny bible that, if she has to be honest, she’d only open when attending church; a broken umbrella, barely functional at this point; an old lip balm that she wasn’t even sure about the expiring date anymore; her trusty notebook, full of annotations in sloppy handwriting (hers, of course) and her hairties! But… Huh. 

_Where are her pencils?_

Christine frowns. She remembers biting all of them, but she thought she'd put them back on the purse...?

“Lost your phone again?” Meg asks, curious, scooting closer. 

“No.” She shakes her head, taking away the phone in question; she puts it on the mattress. And then a book follows. And then the bible, the water bottle, the umbrella; almost everything is out, all but a few things. Not her _pencils_ , though—

Chewing gums.

Christine does not buy chewing gums. Ever. And _sugarless_ ones, at that?

Her face goes white.

“Chrissie?” Meg takes a look into the bag, now twice as curious. "What 's going on? You forgot your wallet or something? We can always go back and— Are those chewing gums?”

Christine nods, dumbly. 

Meg bites her lip. 

“I thought you... Said that gums made you sad because you... Can’t blow... Bubbles…?” The blonde gasps. “Why are there _so many_??”

Christine heaves. 

“ _I— I— I— Hm_.” Her mind goes blank. The hairs on her arms are all up; she can feel her hands shivering a little bit. “Meg,” She starts shakily. “Did you put those in my bag?”

The other girl blinks. 

“What?” 

Christine scratches her nape, nervous. _Surely_ Meg thought this was a good joke. 

“Meg, don’t play dumb. Look—” She shakes her head. “I know you really like this thing about the ghost, but… This, this isn’t funny.” 

Her friend’s mouth hangs open. 

“The ghost?” She grabs her arm again, brown eyes shining with curiosity. “Chris! I thought you said— Oh. My. God. You think I put those on your bag?? I did not, I can promise you that.”

Christine gives her a glare.

“I swear on my ballet slippers!!! I didn’t do it!!!”

“ _Meg—_ ”

“I _swear_ I didn’t!” 

She’s about to shake her friend by her collar when a knock on the door is heard. 

“Girls?” Nadir asks, voice softly muffled. “Are you guys coming downstairs? Lunch is ready.” 

They look into each other’s eyes. One pair is filled with doubt; the other, with wonder.

“Coming!” Meg answers, then ushering Christine to the bathroom; they exchange a few weak elbows on the stomach and slaps on the arms before the brunette finally makes it to the shower. 

A pause falls before the water hits her skin. From behind the door, Meg screams.

“Hey, Chris…” She laughs airly, mouth glued to the door. “Did he like your singing?”

“ _Screw you, Meg!_ ” 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://daydreamingpersephone.tumblr.com/post/642572067321085952/the-phantom-of-the-oreo-chapter-1-persiedaae
> 
> Meg and Chris at the end of the Chapter ^

**Author's Note:**

> The icecream shop I mention actually exists in Indiana.


End file.
